October 11th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 11th, 2024

Popsicle Stick Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricut

What’s the deal with Cricut machines, anyway? They’re like the Tesla of arts and crafts. Back in my day, “arts and crafts” meant popsicle sticks, Elmer’s glue, and maybe a piece of glitter if you really wanted to show off. Now? People are forking over hundreds of dollars just to make personalized coffee mugs. I can’t afford that—not without making a wish on a star or calling in a favor from my old buddy, Jiminy Cricut. He’s been there for me ever since the Blue Fairy looked at my popsicle-stick body and said, “Yeah, let’s make that real.”

To be fair, I never asked to be some sort of popsicle stick celebrity. But I do want to be the kind of person who owns a Cricut machine. You know, fancy enough to look at a pile of vinyl and say, “I could make a monogram out of this!” It’s fine, though—I take it all in Good Humor. Although, every time I scroll through Cricut prices, I’m pretty sure my nose gets a little longer. At least I don’t have to worry about termites or woodpeckers anymore. Now my biggest concerns are how to pay off my credit card bill from Hobby Lobby and avoid being swallowed by a whale.

But seriously, what does a Cricut machine even do? For all I know, you could use one to make new uniforms for my cricket team, The Grasshoppers. After losing our last big match to The Lawnmowers (they bowled us out with no wickets left to spare), we could really use a morale boost. Maybe something with a custom locust design? That would definitely chirp everyone up. Or better yet, I could Cricut us some custom cricket bats—nothing says intimidation like a locust-themed bat with glitter accents, right?

Honestly, though, I’d probably mess it up. I’d start out making cool bats and end up bedazzling our cricket balls instead. Pretty soon we’d be playing with rhinestone-covered balls that would blind the umpire, and I would be left with a glitter-covered mess that looks like a unicorn exploded in my living room. It’s only a matter of time before I’m explaining to Jiminy that I didn’t mean to glue my fingers together, and no, Blue Fairy can’t fix this one.

Still, I can’t help but be intrigued. Maybe I do need a Cricut machine. Think about the possibilities! I could personalize my grocery lists, make a sticker for every Tupperware lid that’s mysteriously lost its partner, or even create a custom label for my feelings: Warning—Strings Attached, Handle with Care. If I’m going to turn my life into a DIY project, I might as well go all in, right?

And who knows? Maybe once I master the Cricut, I’ll become one of those people who makes everything look effortless. Suddenly, my kitchen will be full of mason jars with perfectly crafted labels, my friends will receive hand-cut birthday cards that are somehow better than anything Hallmark could dream of, and I’ll have a vinyl decal on my car that says something like Live, Laugh, Cricut.

But let’s be honest. I’ll probably just end up with a pile of failed projects and glitter in places glitter should never go. I guess some things are better left to the pros—or at least to those who can afford the machine or enough popsicles to fix my fingers after yet another crafting disaster.

In the Veil of Autumn

Poetry Writing

In the Veil of Autumn

I wrap my arms around you,
On this crisp, golden day,
Leaves crackle beneath our feet,
Your warmth rivals our lattes.

Pumpkin spice and cinnamon,
Twist in the brisk fall breeze,
A scarecrow stands sentinel,
Guarding the orchard with ease.

We gather the ripest apples,
Then sail fields of flowing rye,
Through rolling hills and meadows,
Under the sun’s soft, amber tide.

Though winter’s chill will soon arrive,
And frost will kiss our skin,
In our hearts, autumn’s fire burns,
A glow that warms within.

October 9th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 9th, 2024

Hooked on Peanut Butter

I sometimes wonder if eating enough Peter Pan peanut butter could actually turn me into Peter Pan. An all-expenses-paid trip to Neverland, where I’d never have to grow old? Sign me up! But with a deal that sweet, there’s bound to be a Hook. Hopefully, it’s not a fancy-dressed pirate with a grudge. Although I do admire Captain Hook’s fashion sense. I’ve got to wonder where he got his ruffled shirt—from The Swashbuckle at the mall?

Of course, the real question is: how much peanut butter does it take to make this magic happen? Maybe instead of wondering, I should just grab some Wonder Bread and find out. I bet even Elvis would approve—after all, the King was all about peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Though if I start eating those by the king-sized portion, I might be shaking my hips and singing “Jailhouse Rock,” with women swooning like I’m on stage in Vegas. Forget flying to Neverland—I’d have my hands full down here.

But if I did want to take off, I’d probably need a little help from Tinkerbell. Knowing her, she’d get jealous of all the swooning and sprinkle glitter in my peanut butter instead of pixie dust. I’d end up flying, sure—but probably straight to the dentist instead of Neverland!

Now that I can fly, I guess I wouldn’t need a plane, which means no more airport security lines. And that’s a relief, because TSA might have a few questions if they caught me trying to board with a suitcase full of peanut butter jars. Especially without jelly. I mean, peanut oil can be processed into glycerol, which is an ingredient in nitroglycerin. So maybe they’d think I was carrying a recipe for dynamite… or just one peanut butter and jelly sandwich that’s the bomb!

Then again, if I ate that TNT PB&J, I might end up flying to Heaven instead of Neverland. I was going for Peter Pan, not one of The Lost Boys.

On second thought, maybe I’ll skip the Peter Pan peanut butter and go with Skippy. Or better yet, skip the peanut butter altogether and head to Wendy’s for fries and a Frosty. I mean, Wendy did leave Neverland and grow up, right? Who’s to say she didn’t start a fast-food chain? I bet she’d be happy to trade peanut butter for some fries and a Frosty.

October 8th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 8th, 2024

Crabby or Just Shellfish?

My girlfriend says I get crabby sometimes. Sure, I get moody now and then, but “crabby” seems a little harsh. I mean, not everyone can be as ecstatic as Sebastian from The Little Mermaid, singing about how wonderful life is under the sea. Let’s be real—the sea is a harsh mistress. Kind of like how my girlfriend will be after she reads this.

But maybe she’s onto something. If I were a crustacean, would crabby even be the right fit? Maybe I’m not crabby; maybe I’m more of a lobster—tough on the outside but soft and sentimental underneath. You know, I’ve got a tough shell, but I still melt her heart—just like the butter you need to fully enjoy a lobster. And sure, I take her to fancy restaurants like… Red Lobster. Hmm, maybe we’ll stick to Applebee’s after all.

Or maybe I’m more of a shrimp. I’m small, harmless, and definitely quick to get a little “short” with people. But hey, when life gets overwhelming, a shrimp cocktail should help me chill, right? Too bad it’s hard to relax when every tuna, cod, and mackerel in the sea wants to eat you. But don’t feel bad for me—this shrimp doesn’t need your shrimpathy.

I could be a krill instead, but let’s be real—that doesn’t sound much better. I’d still be krill-humored. I mean, you’d be grumpy too if there were millions—no, krillions—of you, and everyone you know keeps getting krilled. It’s pretty kruel.

How about a barnacle? I wouldn’t be crabby, just clingy! I’d stick around no matter what, even when she wants a little space. Permanent attachment—it’s what barnacles do best.

Or maybe I could be a crawfish—easygoing, laid-back, never getting in a crawful mood. Just one cool crawdaddy, never reaching my boiling point… at least I hope not.

But if I had to be a crab, I think I’d choose a hermit crab. That sure would be shell. I mean, who doesn’t want a portable home they can retreat into when things get a little overwhelming? Sometimes I just need my own little shell to crawl into for peace and quiet—maybe that’s where my “crabbiness” comes from. It’s not a bad life, though. I can carry everything I need on my back, dodge the tough situations, and emerge when I’m ready. Plus, let’s face it—I’d rather be a hermit crab than shellfish. At least hermits come out of their shell every once in a while. Shellfish? They’re just in it for themselves.

October 3rd, 2024

Journal Writing

October 3rd, 2024

Boo Humbug: A Fraidy-Cat's Guide to Halloween

Halloween is creeping up on us, and I’m officially creeped out. It’s like one of those creepy crawlers you swear is crawling up your leg—except this time, it’s the entire holiday giving me the heebie-jeebies. (Still not sure what those are, but I’m definitely covered in them.) I know, I know, I’m a big fraidy-cat. I’m even afraid of my own shadow, and honestly, I think my shadow is just as terrified of me.

Look, I’ve tried to embrace the spirit of Halloween, I really have. But when you’re jumping at fake skeletons in the grocery store and side-eyeing the neighbor’s inflatable spider like it’s plotting against you, it’s time to admit defeat. That’s why I’m proposing a new holiday: Yelloween! A holiday made for all my fellow worrywarts who are as yellow-bellied as I am.

And trust me, I’m about as yellow-bellied as they come—think rubber chicken level. But if I’m such a chicken, why do I get goosebumps? It’s like I’ve got a whole farmyard of emotions going on. At this rate, if I keep getting spooked, I might just buy the farm—and I don’t mean in a good way!

“Yelloween” would still have trick-or-treating because, let’s be honest, no one’s afraid of free candy. But the trick part? I could live without it. Between cleaning up eggs some teenagers threw at my house—eggs I swear I didn’t lay—and the annual smashed pumpkin massacre on my porch, I think I’d rather skip the ‘trick’ altogether.

And don’t get me started on the decorations. Cobwebs? My house looks like that 365 days a year, thank you. Add a skeleton in the yard and suddenly my heart rate’s doing cardio I didn’t sign up for. Talk about things that go bump in the night! With my heart pounding like that, it’s a bloodcurdling scream just waiting to happen. At least the vampires would turn up their noses at it—curdled blood isn’t exactly their style!

Now, as for costumes—why do people always go for ghosts, monsters, or witches? Who actually wants to be a ghost? I’d probably scare myself half to life. Let’s keep it less spooky. Maybe dress up as something more relatable… like a dentist, doctor, or lawyer. Although, come to think of it, the last thing I want to see while devouring a bag of candy is a dentist. They’re scarier than any ghost—I mean, they come armed with a toothbrush and floss that could double as a noose! Now that’s a real brush with death!

September 27th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 27th, 2024

My Five Senses? More Like Non-sense!

People often tell me I have a good sense of humor. I tend to agree—at least one of my senses works. As for the other five, well, let’s just say they’re not exactly playing on the same team.

First, there’s my sense of sight. It’s truly “out of sight,” meaning if something isn’t directly in front of my face, I can’t see it. Folks tell me I must have eyes in the back of my head, but I don’t think it’s a compliment. I think they’re implying my eyes are literally back there, hidden behind my hair. Hair today, gone tomorrow, right? Oh, and technically, I do have 20/20 vision. But when you divide that, you get one. So, I figure I only see well out of one eye. People say I’m as blind as a bat, and I’m not talking about the flying mammal—I’m talking about the baseball kind. I have the same accuracy too: sometimes I hit, sometimes I miss. Honestly, I’m more blind than the umpire calling that miss.

Now, my sense of taste? Let’s just say my taste buds and I aren’t exactly best buds. They’ve developed this elite, snobby attitude, like they expect me to serve up a five-course meal for every snack. My palate? It’s basically a palette—an artist’s palette—for a culinary masterpiece. Herbs, spices, sauces—it demands a Michelin-star experience, every meal. Yet somehow, people still claim I have bad taste in movies or music. I have no idea why—I’ve never tried to eat a Blu-ray or a vinyl record. Unless that’s a new food trend I’m missing out on?

Hearing? That’s a bit of a selective process for me. I mean, I could hear you, but why strain myself? People yell at me, “What are you, deaf?” And I’m like, do I look like I’m walking around in a black cloak with a scythe? Although, a scythe would be handy if I needed to harvest some corn—you know, to replace my ears. If you saw me reaping corn dressed like that, you might say it was a bit eerie. But honestly, I wouldn’t hear you anyway.

As for my sense of smell? Well, I think it’s time I renovated my olfactory into a new factory. Let’s just say it’s snot working well. I blame all those scratch-and-sniff stickers and scented markers I went wild with as a kid. Little did I know they’d leave me sniffing out permanent damage. I didn’t nose this would happen!

And finally, my sense of touch. That’s a real touch-and-go situation. I used to be the kind of person who’d always touch base with people—ironic, considering I’m blind as a baseball bat—but now, I’m completely out of touch Honestly, it’s a touchy subject. I thought I had the magic touch once upon a time, but it’s looking more like the Midas touch—everything I touch goes wrong. I think my five senses could really use a touch up—or maybe a touchdown to finally bring it home.

September 26th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 26th, 2024

Equestrian Escapades: Beating the Odds (But Not the Horse)

You know what they say—you shouldn’t beat a dead horse. Frankly, I don’t think you should beat a living horse either. First of all, it’s cruel. Secondly, horses aren’t exactly the best creatures to pick fights with. You never know which one might be Sylvester Stallion, ready to go full Rocky Balboa on you. Next thing you know, after a few rounds with him, you’d look less like a fighter and more like something straight out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I mean, the guy did six Rocky movies; I’d be winded after round one. And if you think he’s more of a Rambo type, be careful—because close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and neither ends well for you.

If you really must beat a horse, I’d recommend a Trojan one, like in Greek mythology. They say you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but with a Trojan horse, it’s definitely worth a peek—just in case there’s an army hiding inside, ready to ambush you. But beware: opening it could also crash your computer if it turns out to be a Trojan horse virus from a sketchy download, ready to wreak havoc on your system! Either way, it’s safer than swinging at a horse that might be Pegasus. In Greek mythology, he wasn’t just any flying horse—he carried Zeus’s thunderbolts, meaning that striking him could literally result in getting struck by lightning. Whether it’s lightning or a kick from their hooves, mythical or not, getting hit by a mustang really must sting.

If you ever find yourself on an epic quest, you definitely need a trusty horse by your side. I mean, the word ‘quest’ is right there in equestrian. Riding into battle on a donkey just doesn’t have the same heroic flair. I’m not saying Shrek didn’t make it work, but it’s definitely not the traditional knight-in-shining-armor look.

Whether it’s a dead horse or a living one, it’s all a horse a piece. Just be careful—you might stumble upon a horse with a piece. That’s one episode of Gunsmoke I’d rather skip, where the horses are more loaded than the cowboys. A showdown at the O.K. Corral with Quick Draw McGraw? Yeah, I’ll pass on that, thanks.

September 19th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 19th, 2024

The Boss of Me: Mixing Business, Penguins, and Too Much Eggnog

They say you shouldn’t mix business with pleasure. No, business should always be mixed with displeasure. I don’t know about you, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who’s genuinely happy at their job. If you know someone, please introduce us—I’d love for them to hire me because I’m definitely not thrilled with mine. Although, let’s be honest: the only way I’d ever be happy at my job is if I worked for myself.

Sadly, even if I were my own boss, I’d probably still get fired. “Yeah, we’re going to have to let you go. We asked for a sales report, not a dissertation on The Role of Penguins in Antarctic Traffic Control. And, no, we haven’t forgotten about the office Christmas party incident.” On the bright side, if I were unemployed, I wouldn’t have to deal with rush hour—especially if penguins were out there managing it.

Speaking of that Christmas party, nobody ever said how much figgy pudding was too much figgy pudding. Turns out, washing it down with a gallon of eggnog was also a bad call. I just hope that eggnog wasn’t made from penguin eggs. Live and learn.

Another perk of being out of work: no more suits. Penguins pull off tuxedos way better than I ever could. Besides, it’d be pretty ridiculous to wear a suit just for my cat. It gets even weirder when you realize… I don’t even have a cat. I lost him during the big corporate merger. They shipped him off to our Antarctic office, and thanks to the penguins, he’s probably on a plane somewhere near the North Pole by now, which is not even the right hemisphere. That’s what happens when you trust a flightless bird to control air traffic.

So yeah, maybe they’re right—you really shouldn’t mix business with pleasure, even if you work for yourself. But after all that figgy pudding, I don’t think I’d mix it with eggnog, either.

September 13th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 13th, 2024

The Not-So-Mystical Art of Reading TV

I always watch TV shows and movies with closed captions turned on. Not because I’m hard of hearing—in fact, I might be soft of hearing, since everything sounds a bit too loud to me. Even a pin dropping sounds like someone just got a strike at the bowling alley. Speaking of which, why do they call it an alley? It sounds like a place where you’d get mugged by a gang of guys wearing matching shirts with their names embroidered on them.

But back to the captions. I like them because they turn a show into a live-action book. But it got me thinking: if these are closed captions, what would open captions be like? Maybe you could change the color or style of the words. Imagine watching a gritty crime drama, but the captions look like they’re written in crayon. It would turn a standoff between a cop and a criminal into something resembling a handmade card from a child, with oversized misspelled words, and a few backwards letters—transforming the tension into something oddly heartwarming. I’m always looking for ways to make suspense a little more ridiculous.

Another perk of closed captions is that I can pretend I have superpowers, like the ability to predict what a character’s going to say next. It’s like I’m a mind reader! Maybe I should brand myself as “The Caption Clairvoyant,” predicting dialogue with eerie accuracy (thanks to the captions, of course). My crystal ball? It would have subtitles too, just in case my clients couldn’t keep up with my ‘predictions.’ But let’s be honest—with my luck, I’d end up giving fortunes like, “You will soon order takeout.” They would probably get a better prediction from the fortune cookie that came with their takeout. At this point, the only future I’m certain of is one where I’m writing captions!